Fridays Are For Trembling Hands
by theDarkIsRising
Summary: After the War, after they've lost everything, how do they pick up the pieces? Two people do so every Friday afternoon with trembling hands and gasping breaths.


theDarkIsRising

Fridays Are For Trembling Hands

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They meet on Friday afternoons. She always gets off work an hour early, having worked through lunch in order to leave. He still has not found a job. She suspects that he bids his time, waiting for Fridays, waiting for their time together, waiting for her. Their routine is simple. She arrives at his house. It is much less conspicuous if she shows up there as opposed to him going to her place. His small one-bedroom sits in the midst of a sprawling forest. There are no neighbors. No one can see or hear them. Only the tall pines lean in to watch them. She used to knock, but soon gave that up. He is always there, always on the other side of the door, so why waste time knocking. Depending on his mood, he smiles slightly at her, or barely notices her; once he even growled as she crossed into his living room. Today, he sits cross-legged on his threadbare couch with a book across his lap. She can tell that he hasn't been reading; the book appears to be upside down.

"Hello," he says.

"Hello, again," she says.

With the pleasantries over, she sits her bag down and removes her cloak. Then she kicks off her sensible black heels. When she reaches for the buttons on her shirt, he stands up and makes his way over to her. His practiced hands take over for her, flicking them undone at a measured pace. She unzips her skirt and lets it fall to the floor. Once opened, his hands roam over her smooth stomach and up her back. He quickly undoes the clasp of her bra. She stands on her tiptoes and captures his head in her hands, pulling his lips down on hers. The kiss is hard and persistent, speaking of loneliness and loss. Every Friday, he tastes like chocolate to her. She wraps her arms around his neck. Placing his hands on her bottom, he pulls her flush against him.

She only breaks contact to yank off his shirt and undo his trousers. She notes how his trousers are holey and need mending. She can fix that; she could fix him. His belt pulls off with a snap, clanking to the floor next to her shoes. Breathing heavily, she peels off her red silk underwear. She starts steering him toward the couch. They have not visited that location recently. Their first time was in his tiny bed with her hands fisted in his sheets, then on the kitchen counter surrounded by dirty dishes, then outside under a waning moon. She found he had little control as the full moon neared as his body covered hers and grass pricked against her skin. Still backing him toward the sofa, her fingers hook around the edge of his boxers before tugging those down. He groans at the skin on skin contact. She feels him become hot beneath her fingertips. His fingers find her breasts and toy with her nipples, causing her to have a sharp intake of breath. She kisses several scars on his chest, intimately familiar with each one.

Now is one of those times that he whispers her name. He says her name different ways: urgently, angrily, huskily, and gently. Today, her name is said lovingly, softly. Today, he whispers it against her hair, against her neck like a prayer. If he says her name enough, if he says it adoringly enough, maybe the past will be erased. Maybe all those horrific memories will be wiped from him and maybe even her. The Battle will be over; the Battle will never have happened. Tonks will come back to life. She will have his child. They will be a family. With each breathy intonation of her name, she wishes with him. She wishes all those things would come true. She cannot deny that she wishes with him, but if it had not have happened, then they would not be here on Friday afternoons. She would have never tasted him or felt his strong hands on her bare hips. She hates herself for finding joy in their Fridays, for finding a thrill in standing on the other side of his door knowing what awaits her. Mostly, she hates herself for not missing Ron more. Maybe, that is her wish when she comes here, that she will become that better person who properly mourns.

She pushes him to the couch; the book falls heavily to the floor. Neither of them notices the noise. She stands in front of him, surveying his chest, the strong muscles that reside under his skin. A wolf waits in there, she thought. I have seen it. Howling, it devours me. He stretches out his hands to her, beckoning her to come to him. She hesitates. She should stop this, stop this now. How does this help his heart, she wondered. But he remains insistent, her name falling from his lips like a low chant. His voice grows rough around the edges. So, like every other Friday, she crumbles and falls into his embrace.

Carefully, she straddles his lap. She gasps as his erection teases her opening. As she grips his shoulders, he guides himself inside of her slowly. Today, he is gentle with her, taking his time as he eases upward. Some Fridays, she is barely in the door before he is on her, putting his hand beneath her skirt, pulling her panties aside and entering her with an almost terriying urgency. Her back is against the wall, her skirt hikes up to chest, and she eventually wraps her legs around him, matching his pace. He does not kiss her until they are both done, panting heavily, barely able to gasp down breaths. Then he softly kisses her neck, stuttering apologies against her skin, mumbling her name incessantly. She entangles her fingers in the hairs at the nape of his neck and assures him everything is okay.

But today, he languidly lets his hands wander across her body as she raises herself up and down. His hips buck against her gyrations as she speeds up her pace. Heavily, his eyelids droop closed. Then his fingers dig into her hips then her bottom, urging her on. He glances up at her, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. His mouth settles on her right breast, drawing it in, flicking the nipple around. One of her hands remains on his shoulder, while the other moves to the back of his head, keeping him in place. Her body begins to arch, a fire building within her stomach. He places a kiss between her breasts on her sternum, and trails more down her stomach. Then he encloses her other breast with his mouth, teasing and nipping at it. His hands support her back. Soon, so soon, the fire explodes in her body, coursing through her veins, and she falls forward on him. She briefly gasps out his name, so low she is not sure if she has said it aloud, but she knows that he will hear it. Waves continue to crash down on her; however, his breaths are still heavy. His whispers continue to encourage her.

Gasping lightly with each movement, she moves faster and faster until his grip on her is almost painful. Now, he cries out, bucking up to meet her movements a few last times. She captures those moans in her mouth as she kisses him again and continues moving her hips slightly, toying with him, knowing he can always go again. Sometimes, she does not leave his cottage until very late in the night. They have each other two, three, four times. It depends – on how lonely they are, how much they hurt, and how good each other's skin feels. His neck is slightly salty from a light sweat; she trails her mouth and down to his collar bone. Finally, his hands still her movements and his arms cradle her against him. She enjoys the Fridays when he is sentimental and affectionate. He allows her to pull his head to her chest, to smooth down his shaggy hair in need of a cut. She whispers nonsense to him; she's not sure of what she is saying. It is her turn to murmur his name into his ear. She feels strangely light after each time they have sex; she hopes he feels the same. Every Friday, she hopes his heart becomes less burdened.

Eventually, he speaks. "Why do you always come back to me?"

"Why do you always wait for me?"

"Because I know you'll be there. On the other side of that door."

"Same for me. You will be here." She pokes his chest, but is clearly indicating his position on the coach.

He pushes a few stray curls from her face and tucks them behind her ear. She knows by now her hair must look wild. Every time she leaves, her appearance seems more ragged than the time before: messy hair, flushed face, swollen lips, askew clothing. His thumb traces her bottom lip and his face holds a distance expression. She is losing him; he is slowly slipping away, going away from her, away from this Friday afternoon. His gray eyes grow hazy. The sun slants in from a nearby window, illuminating them. Please stay with me, she thought. Don't go. Be here; be really here. She repositions herself into a sitting position on his lap. Cupping his face, she runs her thumb along his prominent cheekbone.

"Remus," she says. When he does not respond, she says it again. "Remus."

"Yes, Hermione?" he breathes out her name slowly.

She hesitates. "What is this?"

At first, he leans away from her and her touch. She tries to hide it, but she knows her face relays her disappointment at his reaction. Sensing her distress, he comes closer again, pulling her against his chest, placing a flurry of kisses into her hair, inhaling the intoxicating honey scent that clings to her.

"Surviving. We are surviving."


End file.
